Her mind leaped to details. Luckily she was provided with money. It was still early in the day. Sunday. True. There were fewer trains on Sunday. Still, there might be a way of getting to Ridgefield before evening; and by some round-about route, too, which avoided Boston. Reba wished to avoid Boston—especially its railroad stations. The time that other girl had failed to come back to her room at the Alliance, all the stations in the city were under constant watch. She was afraid of the very thought of capture. Oh, if once she could reach Ridgefield, if once she could conceal herself deep within the gray impenetrable walls of 89 Chestnut Street, then let them search to their hearts' content, then let them suspect and surmise the worst of her. Once in the little rocking-chair, overlooking the rumbling mills, Reba felt she would be safe from grilling questions, from she knew not what riddling reprimands. Safe, too, from any possible encounter with blue, brown-flecked eyes—hard with displeasure, or gentle with pity, she knew not which.
She got up, ready for action. She was thoroughly aroused and alert now, and she told herself, as she pinned up her hair, put on her shoes, and bathed her face gingerly with a corner of the dampish towel which she dipped into the half-filled water-pitcher, that she must act wisely, not lose her head. She must go downstairs and show no nervousness to the hotel-proprietor, station-agent, or whoever did help her with the puzzling time-tables. Also, she must send some sort of word as soon as possible to the Alliance, explaining her absence. She thought first of calling Mamie immediately by telephone, but what excuse
